


Cloudy Day

by bluedelilah



Category: Marriage Story (2019)
Genre: Charlie calls you my love, Charlie takes care of you when you're having a bad day, Conversation about negative emotions, Could be triggering for an ed, Depression, Emotional Comfort, Fluff, Lack of Appetite, No Smut, Numbness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:02:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27183547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluedelilah/pseuds/bluedelilah
Summary: Fluff one-shot (more of a blurb)Please mind the tags!Sweet Charlie takes care of you after a bad day.Warning! I go into some detail about the negative emotions and habits. It's meant to be comforting but just beware. I really wouldn't want to trigger anyone.(I didn't do much editing so if there's typos, no there aren't.)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	Cloudy Day

Some days you wake up and there's a gray fog looming over your shoulders. Your neck feels stiff and heavy. The alarm clock plays that annoying song for a full minute before you find the motivation to reach out and click it off. Even then you don't slide out of bed yet. 

Charlie is already gone to work. He likes to leave early and get coffee for everyone. He always says that walking into the theatre when no one is there and the lights are off, makes him feel like he did when he first discovered his passion. You're glad he enjoys his early mornings, but on days like this you wish he was still in bed. Maybe then, this blurry burden of numbness wouldn't ache so badly. 

His side of the bed is empty. His pillow is dented, his share of sheets rumpled. You grab the pillow and pull it against yourself. Charlie likes his pillows hard, made of memory foam rather than the normal cotton filling, so it's less satisfying to clutch against your chest. Thankfully it still smells like him, like clean laundry and leftover cologne. 

Eventually you force yourself from the mattress. Today is not the sort of day where work seems anything less than hell, but you must go anyway. A large cup of coffee and your favorite sweater releases only a fragment of the dread. 

-

You knew work would be bad. Just not that bad. Task after task, you kept making silly mistakes, resulting in a few comments of reprimanding. You cried in the bathroom at one point, but had to wipe away the mascara and finish the rest of the day out. 

The apartment is a warm greeting. At least here there's less threat of responsibility. Well, that's not entirely true. There are dishes in the sink and you can see from here that the trash can is full. Charlie's mess of papers is splayed over the coffee table. You haven't swept the hard wood floor in a week. There's dust and dirt gathering in the corners and along the edges of the rug. But just the thought of getting out the broom makes your head pulse with exhaustion. Just not today. The weight is too large. 

Dinner doesn't happen. The groceries are running low and the only thing you can think to make is rice and veggies, but steaming them takes too long and you don't want to check on the rice every five minutes. Instead you settle for a sleeve of crackers, which you consume while you stand in front of the pantry and read the side label of a pasta box over and over again. 

_1\. Brings 6 quarts of water to boil, adding salt to taste._

_2\. Add pasta to boiling water, stirring occasionally, for 10-12 minutes._

_3\. Drain and enjoy. See back for our homemade turkey Mariana recipe._

Once you've read it through six times, you're not sure how many crackers you've eaten, but it feels satisfying enough. It's still early. Only 7 p.m. but you don't feel like watching TV or scrolling through your phone. Reading doesn't sound good either. Nothing sounds good and there's a splitting ache in your skull. 

So you brush your teeth for as long as you can focus on the task, and rinse your face with water, though you know it's not good enough to get the makeup off. The last drop of your energy is used to ruffle through Charlie's hamper to find one of his crewneck's. You find the one he wore yesterday, navy blue. It smells like him, a mix of laundry detergent, cologne, and citrus shampoo. Maybe even a hint of coffee. You wonder if he spilled on it. You slip it on and crawl beneath the sheets. They're cold and you shiver, but the strong sensory feels nice and your eyelids feel heavier. 

-

You're vaguely aware of some form of disturbance. After a moment, you realize its the shifting of the mattress and the sound of a voice that has pulled you from your sleep. 

You shift and roll over lazily, the sheets getting tangled around your legs. You don't care enough to tug them into place. His lips find your forehead and linger there like they want to sense what's being contained. 

"You went to bed early?" His voice is low and quiet. He's trying not to disturb you, but truthfully you wish to be disturbed. 

"Mhmm," you slur. Your eyelids feel impossibly stuck, but you pry them open, blinking rapidly to adjust to the foggy haze of your vision. The bathroom light is on, providing just enough light so you can see his face. His hair is insane, completely ruffled and fluffy after a full day of running his hands through it. Exhaustion is obvious on his features, droopy cheeks, pouty lips. He's peering at you with curiosity that hasn't yet turned to concern.

"Just tired?" he asks. His fingers are at his shirt, unbuttoning the constricting material. 

You close your eyes again to ponder his question. It would be easiest to reply with a "yes" and roll over to escape this dim day again. Being honest would burden you with a sense of guilt. He was tired. He shouldn't have to comfort you so often when you get like this. But the feeling is especially dark today and you're too desperate to care about the guilt. 

You shake your head against your pillow. "Bad day."

There's a frown that pushes a wrinkle into his forehead as he sheds his button-up and tosses it onto the floor. The wondering in his eyes had turned to worry, and he scoots closer and leans down so his face is closer to yours. 

"What happened, my love?"

Those simple words are enough to make tears prickle in your eyes. Your throat is tight now, almost itchy with distress as you try to find the words to explain. 

"I don't feel good," is all you can manage. 

His lips return to your forehead, but they stay pressed there even longer this time. "You don't feel warm. Do you think you're sick?"

It's tempting to give up. A simple 'maybe' and he would let you sleep away your grief in privacy. But now the tears have already gathered, and you're not sure if he can see them but he'll hear them in your wavering voice so there's no point in hiding it. 

"No. Not like that," you mutter.

His hand brushes up your neck to cradle your cheek. His fingers are cold and it makes your hair stand up on your legs. "Cloudy day?" he asks. 

Only a month ago had he witnessed your first day like this. You had tried to explain it to him, but there were no words that felt specific enough. 

_It's like when you wake up and it's really gloomy out, really cloudy, and you feel a little sad for no reason. It's like that but worse because things just feel really bad and really empty at the same time. Everything seems too difficult. I don't think I'm making sense_ , you had told him. He had said he understood.

You nod. "Yeah. Cloudy day." Your voice cracks though you don't mean for it to. 

His hands are scooping you up before you can protest it. He moves to lean his back against the headboard as he drapes you into his lap, your cheek pressed into the front of his shoulder. 

"You could have called me. I would have come home earlier," he mumbles into your hair. 

Your tears are spotting his undershirt now. "I didn't want to bother you."

One hand finds your face, then the other, and he pulls on your jaw until he can see your eyes. 

"You'd never bother me." His voice is sincere, just like the fold in his brow. 

His mouth meets yours with light assurance. His lips are soft and puffy, and he doesn't move them, just drinks you in with one long, light peck. 

"Did you eat?" 

"Some crackers," you croak. 

"I'll make you something unless you'd rather go back to sleep," he offers, fingers trailing over the length of your forearm. 

"I don't want to sleep," you whisper. 

Charlie carries you out of the bedroom. He sets you at the end of the couch and wraps a blanket over your legs, though you assure him you aren't completely helpless. There is pancake mix in the pantry, and you agree that it sounds better than anything else. 

"Talking or no talking?" he calls from the kitchen while he pulls an egg from the carton. 

He sticks his head out, awaiting your answer. "Talking's okay."

So he brings the ingredients to the table and mixes them there, that way he can ramble about his day and look at you at the same time. You don't have many answers, but he seems unbothered by it. He offers you a moment to share about your own lousy day, but you politely decline and he doesn't push it farther. 

Pancakes are consumed on the couch, with only one lamp on so as not to disturb your headache. He keeps glancing up from his plate to make sure you haven't broken down yet. So far, so good. 

When the plates are empty, he carries them to the sink and says he'll wash them before he leaves in the morning. 

"Do you want to sleep now?" he asks, settling beside you on the sofa. 

"If I close my eyes I'll think too much," you explain quietly. 

He accepts this answer, and asks what you want to do instead. Still, nothing seems good. TV seems too bright and loud and demanding of your conscious. Reading sounds too energy draining. Music, Charlie's favorite records, sounds okay. So he puts them on and lets you settle your head against the arm of the couch, feet on the other side of his lap. 

"You can work if you want to," you suggest. 

"I don't have to."

"I kind of like watching you work," you admit shyly. He seems to like this information, because a smirk pulls at his lips. So you lie out and watch him, paper in his hands, pen tucked behind his ear, as he reads and reads and reads. Every once in a while he smooths a hand over your thigh, or presses a kiss to your knee. 

It isn't fixed. A cloudy day is still a cloudy day, but the thick fog that usually seems to clog your chest feels lighter now. The possibility of tomorrow being sunny seems high. And even if tomorrow is another cloudy day, you know now you can tell Charlie, and he'll ease the dark flood. 


End file.
